fiducia
by PureWaterLily
Summary: The difference between the touch of a man and those of a woman? You can trust hers. Lisbeth/Mimmi.


When it comes to one night stands, Lisbeth cares very little for gender. Both sides have given their shares of satisfying nights. Both sides have also proven incompetence is everywhere, and her judgments can be skewed horribly by alcohol.

The only reason why Lisbeth's history is riddled with older men, and hardly any woman, is practicality. They have the natural tools to get the job done, they have experience, and they are easily available on the market. It does not take much to convince a man to bed with you, if anything at all. You don't have to fear rejection. You also don't have to give a damn about his pleasures, because he sure as hell isn't thinking of yours.

The trade off, you get a dirty experience. With the curtains closed, lights off, you don't have to see their saggy, porous skin, but some days, Lisbeth hates the texture of body hair. Even more, the smell of overflowing testosterone and sweat. Bodily fluids get everywhere. It's a mess. There _are_ times when Lisbeth gets an unique craving for this kind of dirtiness, want to wrestle with the pigs in mud, relieve her inner anger and frustration and stress, _scream _like a demon. However, more often than not, like a sink overloaded with decomposing food, grease-crusted dishes, and cockroaches, the repulsion becomes too much to ignore.

Women are a little different. You can have sex with the nights on, because they are aesthetically pleasing. Their skin are more tender; it feels good to touch them. Although Lisbeth is not the one for flowers or fruit, they always smell and taste clean. They work as hard dressing down as dressing up. They are also much more curious, and ambitious, like to laugh, explore, experiment.

However, as much as Lisbeth likes women in that aspect, she doesn't approach them. Because, unlike with men, there is a chance they will say no. Then her mood will foul, and she will leave without reaching her objective. Even if Lisbeth lies with a woman, she is still discomforted. _Self-conscious_. Sex with a woman is an agreement of mutual exchange. You can't just take anything you can get; you have to make her happy. If you don't fulfill her adequately, don't expect anything back.

Such an agreement is a social thing. You know, those things that take far too much effort to build, become stressful to maintain, and the benefits are hardly what you sowed. Such an agreement also takes a fair amount of trust, and a reliance on the other party. And Lisbeth hates all of this too much to bother.

Mimmi is the one exception. Mimmi always fucks Lisbeth as if she were fucking herself, and it feels incredible. Her fingers work to strength, speed, rhythm. There is an aggression, confidence, burning lust in Mimmi that Lisbeth expects, but fails, to find in the male population. And indeed, Mimmi does a better job at pleasuring Lisbeth than Lisbeth can herself, the wet warmth of a skilled tongue lapping into her folds, the surprising bites and nibbles that makes Lisbeth tense and curl her toes and impatiently thrust deeper to Mimmi's mouth.

Mimmi will always be the one woman Lisbeth approaches. Lisbeth quietly stalks in the corners of the club, watches the person of her interest dominate the dance floor, shredding to the music. Fierce as a tiger, Mimmi destroys her competitors, a single sway, sharp, a snap of her finger. Lisbeth watches the sweat glisten down her body, the way her muscles rip, then with a whip of her mane, fade away into smooth curves and a sultry grin.

High heeled pumps step off the floor. A fitting oriental-style dress with the golden imprint of a slithering cobra.

"Salander." Even her voice is melting, commanding, _exotic_, the perfect fusion of her French and Chinese descent.

Lisbeth says nothing, only stare at Mimmi's mascaraed eyelashes. The painted lips, the contours of her breasts, a cleavage that makes Lisbeth trace her index finger down in between. Maybe give a firm squeeze, and a lick. Then, the faint pulls of the biceps, triceps, deltoids, those of an athletes, of an huntress under the moon; they are beautiful to Lisbeth for a different reason.

Without a word, Lisbeth pockets her hands in cargo pants, and sulks away. She hears a chuckle from behind, then following footsteps. She can rely on Mimmi to always say yes, ferociously tear apart all her clothes, and make her orgasm five times against the hallway walls, her underwear soaking wet, before either of them even talk about whose bed this time.

.

Even in the coldest winters, every morning Lisbeth wakes up with Mimmi is to basking morning sunshine, the bed a comfortable nest, her body feel sauna relaxed and rejuvenated. It is one of the rare moments her mind is peaceful, calm, and her body is poured with a honey of welcoming feelings, as Mimmi's flesh warms her, embraces her, cuddles against her, fingers gently tracing the spirals of ink down her back.

"Morning."

And Lisbeth doesn't shy away.

"Yes."

Mimmi's fingers stop. A giant yawn, and she springs right up, stretching her muscles. "Are you going to settle for breakfast this time?"

Lisbeth pauses, and realizes with surprise she has an appetite. She only eats when her body is absolutely depleted, starving for carbohydrates and sugars to keep functioning, but today, she wants to eat just to eat. And eat something _good_.

When she nods, Mimmi is pleasantly surprised, and decides to take advantage of the rare opportunity. Her movements are fast; she kicks any shirt up and wiggles in, then dashes out of the bedroom.

Meanwhile, Lisbeth curls up in the comforter, waiting. Without the other's presence, she becomes less distracted and more uneased, her eyes darting across the bedroom she has already memorized for the nth time to occupy her mind. But it doesn't work, and suddenly, all release from the former night is undone. The temperature in the room drops to frigid, and things like unpaid heating bills, taxes, bug infestations, douchebag authorities, influenza viruses, criminal charges, belittling tsks, IV injections, and a fuck up of a life all slam into her at once like a wall of bricks.

Lisbeth instantly strips the comforter off. She has yet to put on her leather jacket, when Mimmi has returned with coffee and donuts.

"Salander," Mimmi states firmly, narrowing her eyes at the jacket.

"I have to leave."

"After breakfast, right?"

Lisbeth's eyes flash to the door, then back to her lover's face, hair disturbed, makeup wiped, but still beautiful and authoritative. It provides enough of a mental distraction.

"I got the cream-filled kind this time." Mimmi grins, presenting the tray. "I already heated them up; it'd be a waste."

.

Mimmi is similar to the tattoo imprinted on Lisbeth's shoulder, a resting container of raw power. As powerful as Mimmi is, a burst of vigor and energy, she has never once abused it, never once lost control, never once harmed anyone. Her touches are never misplaced, her actions never bring about wrong.

So when Mimmi snakes from behind, wraps a strong, protective arm around Lisbeth, and licks the cream from the ring on Lisbeth's lips, Lisbeth doesn't jerk away, doesn't punch, doesn't fiercely kiss back.

Instead, she sips her coffee and peacefully watches the winter snowfall outside, the tame fire of a dragon's burning inside her stomach.


End file.
